


Storm Clouds

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous Enterprise Stories [3]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>T’Pol contemplates the relaxing effect a porch swing has on her slave. Brief snippets from a slavery AU featuring the Enterprise characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

T'Pol would not have thought herself a porch swing person.

Those objects were chunky, graceless, squeaky, their faded white exterior slowly peeling off day by day. The same qualities could often apply to their owners, it seemed, in their small cottages along the quiet streets of the village or just off the dirt road beside their farms. T'Pol was elegant, dark, dignified, poised, hushed—everything a porch swing was not. Her family's manor outside of town possessed an identical character. The traditional porch swing would be utterly out of place, not to mention useless. There was already a bench on the front porch that served perfectly well for her late afternoon ritual of reading outdoors, a practice she had observed almost obsessively since she was young. It needed no addition, no substitution.

That was, until she saw Mal fall asleep on the new porch swing Captain Archer had just installed.

She was taking tea at the Captain's home when he pointed out the new object and insisted she try it. T'Pol didn't even know how to sit on it properly at first—it did not remain steadfast and immobile like her bench but rather rocked and swayed with the tiniest movement. It reminded her unpleasantly of the hammock she had once been persuaded to try, and she wondered if this experience would end as badly.

Once she got the hang of it, as the Captain would say, it seemed... not disagreeable. But hardly a necessity. And somewhat inconvenient, as Mal could hardly kneel at her feet when her feet, and the rest of her, kept moving back and forth. Indeed, if he'd tried to kneel near her at all he likely would have been brained by the seat of the swing.

"No, no, let him lay down on it," the Captain suggested jovially. "That's what Travis and I do. It's very comfortable. Kind of like being on a boat."

T'Pol gave him a look, as he knew she disliked boats. She would not go so far as to say she suffered from seasickness, but travel by water was not high on her list of pleasures. Still, Mal didn't seem similarly affected, so after a few moments of awkwardness he was stretched comfortably on the large seat, his head in her lap.

The sensation was enjoyable, she decided, as she rocked the swing back and forth and chatted with Captain Archer. Mal was not usually allowed on the furniture, except the bed of course; he spent most of his time with her at her feet, leaning his head against her knee or thigh, much as Travis and Captain Archer were positioned at the wicker chair nearby.

"Looks like _someone_ likes it," the Captain said with amusement not long after, and T'Pol looked down to see Mal fast asleep. Her surprise must have shown on her face as Archer continued, "He hasn't been sleeping well lately?"

T'Pol shook her head. "I believe the storms make him—uncomfortable." It was the rainy season on this part of the continent at the moment, when the days were humid and hazy and the nights filled with roaring thunder and a pounding downpour. Mal had never liked the storms, ever since she had acquired him, and he often went many nights without proper sleep during this time of year.

But now he was asleep, out cold really. T'Pol would have allowed him the occasional nap during the day, of course, but he never seemed able to take them. Perhaps the motion of the swing was, indeed, soothing to him. And the Captain, she reflected, was hardly a peasant, but rather a man of the world, if a bit eccentric. The porch swing they sat on was not chunky or even white; it was large and sturdy but finely made, and painted an appalling shade of electric blue. That was the Captain's peculiarity showing through, T'Pol supposed.

She stayed longer than she normally would have at the Captain's, letting Mal sleep, and it was only when she saw the storm clouds gathering on the horizon that, reluctantly, she woke him. Archer gallantly offered to let them stay the night; T'Pol knew it would be no imposition for him, as his house was large and he had few servants. But she couldn't accept—she would rather be in her own home, where she was master and mistress both. T'Pol was far too independent to be a house guest—let alone a wife, which she knew the Captain also hoped for. Instead she politely declined, thanked him for his hospitality, and departed for the motor coach with a sleepy-eyed Mal in tow, barely making it home before the rain began to splatter against the house.

The next day she began inquiries for a porch swing of her own—one that met her exacting specifications, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

He stood frozen, staring at her. Perhaps he was surprised to discover this was her room, perhaps he had merely been looking for an exit to make good his escape. Or perhaps he had always intended to come here, for threats or revenge or who knew what else. But he had stopped—that was the important part. T'Pol's gaze had flickered once to the dagger he brandished when he had come in, but after that her eyes never left his as she walked forward, slowly. She made no effort to reach for a robe—the blue silk pajamas left nothing important uncovered, but normally she would have found them immodest to wear around guests. If you could call a person who had barged into your room with a knife a guest, and if you could call someone bought as, ultimately, a bedslave a guest.

"Don't come any closer," he warned, his voice strangled, and T'Pol paused. How ridiculous, really. If she didn't come any closer, he couldn't hold her hostage or harm her, and she stood between him and the doors to the patio. What, exactly, was his plan? She took another step forward and saw him flinch. Good. She had learned the regal bearing and cool gaze from her father, and it had served her well many times.

"Get down on your knees," she ordered him, voice quiet but firm. There was no trace of hesitation, nothing but the expectation that he would obey immediately. "A slave should kneel in the presence of his mistress."

Trip gaped at her, as if all thought had fled from his intelligent mind. Any plan he had, any resolve, any anger—gone, in the face of her complete confidence of command. If he could overcome that and act as he wanted to anyway, then he would be truly dangerous. But T'Pol didn't believe he was really capable of that. Or rather, she couldn't let one trace of that possibility cross her mind, not while he stared into her eyes trying to decide what to do. He must see nothing but the anticipation of obedience.

Slowly, he dropped to one knee, then the other. Only then did he break eye contact with her, hanging his head in submission as a good slave ought.

The clamor of the approaching guards in the hall shattered the silence that had enveloped them for a moment. Some security they were, T'Pol thought with irritation. She would have to speak to her chief steward about that in the morning, although even she had to concede that they didn't usually anticipate threats from _within_ the house.

"Put the knife down," she told him, as if it were really of little consequence. And it was: he might have been holding a loaf of bread for all the danger it presented to her now. But she was afraid the guards might react badly if he were still armed when they pushed through the doors to her chamber. The clank of the metal hitting the stone tiles was muffled by the noise of the guards finally reaching her.

She ignored their shouts and stepped close to Trip. His head was level with her belly, partially bared by the indiscreet pajamas, and she saw his eyes drift shut as he inadvertently inhaled her scent, the jasmine and sandalwood of her bath still clinging to her. Placing her hand firmly on the back of his neck she leaned down and whispered in his ear. "It is good that you obey me, your mistress," she told him, caressing the skin below his ear with her thumb. "You will find that obedience is its own reward here."

T'Pol stepped back and released him, nodding over his head at the chief steward who gazed at her worriedly. Immediately he signaled to two of the guards, who grabbed Trip's arms and dragged him to his feet. He resisted slightly, enough to show that he hadn't lost his spirit, but not enough to cause alarm.

"Mistress?" the chief steward inquired hesitantly. The word held a myriad of questions.

He would have to be punished, of course. He had broken too many rules, even if he had submitted to her authority again at the end. But then again, slaves were _supposed_ to submit. He deserved no special commendation for that.

Still, as his mistress, she could look to her own interests when it came to punishment. "Don't hit him in the face," she ordered her steward. "I don't want to ruin it."

"Yes, Mistress," the steward replied, bowing slightly. He jerked his head at the guards and they withdraw, hauling the errant slave with them, unblocking the doorway so T'Pol's ladies could stream in with their chattering concern. Perhaps in a few days—a week or two, really—the new slave might be ready to be seen again.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mistress, can I ask you a question? After this one, I mean." Mistress could be quite literal sometimes.

"If it will not disrupt your concentration."

Trip grinned a little bit and looked up at his mistress, but she appeared to be engrossed in the magazine she was reading. He went back to massaging her feet diligently, careful not to let his speech interfere with the rhythm.

"It's about Mal," he began, and when he glanced up this time he saw her peering at him over the top of the magazine. "I was just wonderin' why he's so quiet all the time."

"Your question implies the use of an absolute scale, when in fact the measure should be relative," T'Pol told him coolly.

"Um... what?" Trip asked in confusion.

T'Pol laid the magazine on a small table beside the chaise lounge she reclined on and focused her full attention on the slave who sat on the floor at her feet. "You talk a great deal," she clarified, not unkindly. "Therefore, even those who speak an 'average' amount will likely seem 'quiet' in your opinion."

Trip thought that one over. She was right, of course. Mistress was _always_ right. Still, he was curious. "You can hardly get _any_ words out of him, though," he persisted. "Or any noise at all. I've met a lot of people, and I've never met anyone who talked as little as Mal."

T'Pol sighed a bit. "You do have a point," she admitted, and a bright grin broke out across Trip's face at the acknowledgement. "Mal _is_ unusually taciturn." She shifted slightly on the chaise and Trip could feel her muscles tensing. "Mal's first owner was very—strict," she revealed. "He was trained from childhood to be silent as often as possible."

Trip grimaced. "Sounds horrible," he decided, with distaste. "What kind of people would do that, especially to a little kid?"

T'Pol picked up the magazine again, more for something to occupy her hands. She was not entirely comfortable discussing Mal's past with another slave, even one he was as close to as Trip. Still, it might help Trip understand him a little better, especially as Mal was unlikely to ever explain it himself, and she wanted to be sure Trip did indeed have a good understanding of him before she left.

"His owners were actually very well-regarded," she finally stated, a trace of irony in her tone. "My father knew them, slightly, and has told me of dinner parties they hosted during which the guests were served by exceedingly well-behaved and well-dressed children. Apparently they considered it quite the novelty."

Trip shook his head as continued rubbing T'Pol's feet and ankles. "When I was a little kid, you couldn't have pinned me down in a suit servin' food for anything," he confessed, unashamed.

"I am not surprised," his mistress replied dryly.


End file.
